


Destroy and Build Again

by TeaForNone



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Frank works in construction, Love that sledgehammer, M/M, pre-season1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-03-30 01:16:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13939437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaForNone/pseuds/TeaForNone
Summary: Even FBI agents have holidays – and when Sam Stein returns home for Hanukkah, he finds out his mother hired a guy to do some construction work on the house. The guy's name is  Pete Castiglione and he is currently destroying his childhood bedroom with a sledgehammer. (Pre-season 1)





	1. Happy Hanukkah

**Author's Note:**

> After I watched the show I searched for some Sam Stein fics and there's soo little... Whyy. Anyway, here is wassup if Sam and Frank met ;) I keep thinking Sam as bisexual (with his comment about searching for dead marines on Tinder, ah!) So it's set at the beginning of season 1, Frank works in construction and Sam is not yet assigned to the Castle case.

Even FBI agents had time off for holidays. So Sam drove to Staten Island, all excited to see his mother, to eat until he had to buy new pants and to rest in the comfort of his old bedroom. He had a shitty week and just needed a comfy bed, the familiar smell of home and some childhood artifacts to remind him of good times. But the second he parked, he could hear the crushing sound of what seemed to be construction. He had to scream “I'm home” in the lobby to actually be heard. His mother Deb sat him down at the kitchen table and explained that she hired a guy to destroy the wall between her office and Sam's former room.

“You're destroying my bedroom?”, he said, hurt.

“I'm making a studio. I need space for my paintings.”

“Where am I suppose to sleep?”

“I put a air mattress in the garage. It's cozy, there's the little heater.”

“Oh, great. A little heater. Happy Hanukkah.”

Meanwhile, the deafening sounds of a sledgehammer was getting on his nerves. It was steady, like a metronome that just smashed its way into your ear and prevented you to have one coherent thought.  “I'm gonna talk to the guy”, said Sam, standing up. His mother shoved a box of cookies in his hand. “Mom, I'm not gonna offer poppy seed cookies to the guy who's smashing my room” but Sam took the box anyway.

-

Sam wanted to make sure this was done right, that the guy wasn't a fraud or taking advantage of his mother. He turned the corner, ruminating and thinking of what to say. The sledgehammer swang so close, Sam stepped back just in time to keep his nose intact. This monster of human was tearing the wall like an animal. Sam stood there staring. The sledgehammer hit the floor.

“I hurt you?”, said the guy in a low guttural voice. Sam looked at him with an eyebrow that kept on rising.

“I'm fine. I... guess I was in the way,” he said with a heavy hint of sarcasm.

“You were.” The guy took the sledgehammer up again. Okay. Rude.

“That's the part where you're supposed to take the blame. Like “no, my bad” but hey--” And the sledgehammer metronome resumed and Sam kept on talking but he couldn't hear the sound of his own voice after a while. So he swore and left.

-

Eating the cookies by himself, Sam found his mother in the garage, trying to tidy things up. He put the box aside and began to make the bed.

“Did you give him the cookies?”, she asked.

“No. He pissed me off so I ate half of it,” Sam replied while shoving a pillow in its pillowcase. “Did you have to do that during Hannukah?”

“We're going to celebrate it with your aunt, across the street. She's got to have everything tidy and in order – or else we judge her – but I don't have to.”

"I could have knocked that wall out, you just had to ask", he mumbled while taking another cookie. Deb gave him a side glance, but Sam kept on complaining: “He looks like a serial killer. Where did you find him? Do you even know his name?” And also, he looked oddly familiar. 

“You're here, Sammy. Couldn't ask for better protection.” And he smiles at her and she smiles at him.

“Name's Pete.”

They turn around to find the construction guy in the doorway, covered in plaster. He had a little plastic cup and was probably going to the kitchen for a water refill.

“I'm Sam, the... son.”, said Sam while pointing at his mother.

“So you what, a cop?"

“He's a—”, began Deb. But Sam shushed his mother with five different hand gestures.

“Yeah, yep, cop,” continued Sam. It's part of the job to be discreet. And Sam really wanted to keep his job. “Is that a problem?”

Silence again. Pete shrugged and left.

-

Later that afternoon, Sam went to his former bedroom to put his remaining things in boxes – comic books, airplane models, mystery novels. Pete kept working on that wall. After a while, Sam just found himself staring at Pete. He noticed how the guy rarely made eye contact. With his mother, with him. When he talked, he would say entire sentences while glancing away to his right, as if suspecting a private eye was somehow following him. He had the behavior of the constantly nervous but yet he was always calm, breathing in and out. Pete had dark eyes, nearly black and they sucked the life out of Sam everytime they were on him. Maybe that's why he so rarely put them on him. It was a sort of kindness. He felt that Pete could be cruel if it meant things were better on the long run. Under his eyes, bag of sleeplessness. Heavy lines of fatigue and stress, dripping down the corner of his eyes to his cheeks. And it wasn't unattractive either, it was shaping him much like cheekbones. A broken nose, broken more than once, and a big mouth. Big and heavy because it didn't speak a whole lot, it has all the weight of those unsaid words in the pulp of his lips. With his steady but nervous gaze and a mouth that stayed closed most of the time – the guy had an economy and an intensity on everything he did. Even the way he spoke.

“You got a problem?”

“No, nope,” said Sam, shoving his books into a box. Silence again. Sam resumed the conversation without really knowing why. “You don't like cops, do you? I'm a cool cop, just so you know.”

“Yeah? What's that? The kind that pulls you over because they don't like your face?”

“Or maybe they like it.” Sam couldn't stop talking if he wanted to. “They wouldn't pull you over and chat you up if they didn't like.”

Pete stares at him, a sly amused smile, so small, so quiet, on his lips. And he went back at destroying that wall. Sam left the room and the pressure left his shoulders. Some kind of pressure he didn't really feel was here.

-

The next day, the wall was down. Sam helped Pete to clean everything up by putting pieces of wall into a cart. It was heavy work – the wall was made of old-fashioned bricks and cement. “Old house, hm?” said Pete and that must have been the first thing he said all day.

“Yeah. Everything here is pretty old. You should see our coffee machine, it's like a steam engine kind of thing. Do you want to see our coffee machine? I can get us coffee.”

“Listen, Officer...”

“No, you're right you know what.... Police. People feel obliged and it's awkward." Sam kept going. “It scares girls away too, believe me. I tell them my job and next thing I know I'm not their type. Then, weeks later, I find out about their little weed side-business. Now, I get it... it puts pressure on something otherwise casual--”

“I'll take coffee.”

“Oh, yeah? Yeah?”

“If it gets you to shut up.”

-

And just like that, they were both in front of the coffee machine, a monster of a coffee machine. Lots of buttons, too many choices. Half of them didn't work.

“Americano doesn't work, for some reason... but you can ask for espresso and then boils water on the side. But boil the water before you select espresso. Because then, by the time the water boils, really, your espresso turns bad.” They waited for the water to boil. “So what are you doing for Christmas... Pete?”

“That an interrogation?”

“Small talk. But I guess you don't do that.”

“You guessed right.” And Sam wanted to ask why Pete was such a weirdo and who he was but he knew the guy wouldn't explain willfully and there was an awkward silence and the water began to boil. They made Americanos. Sam holds his mug tight and expected them to drink and chat. Sam must have gone too far into his own mind, because Pete was waiting by the door.

“I got stuff for you to sign.”

“Yeah, sure.”

They went back to the bedroom. Pete gave him a clipboard. “What do you need?”, said Sam, grabbing a pen.

“Phone number, for one.”

“Aw, I thought you'd never ask.” said Sam, smiling at his own joke. But Pete wasn't smiling. With his black eyes, he was just staring. So Sam scribbled the numbers in a hurry, feeling like a fool. And he completed the rest of the paperwork in silence. God, he hoped he'd never see the guy again.


	2. Happy New Year

Hanukkah was good fun, with the usual drunk cousin and the forever-grumpy uncle. Sam was the drunk cousin. He checked his phone constantly and felt silly and would drink a third of the potato vodka bottle to feel better. But he just felt drunk.

Then, came Christmas. The dreaded time when everybody at work asked if Sam had a tree (no), if he had plans (no) and eventually why he didn't celebrate it. The only reason why he wasn't called the Grinch yet was his love of Christmas food. Peppermint bark and eggnog? Bring it on. There was something about being seasonal that gave meaning to time. It made him slow down and think “It's this time of year”, whatever this time was. The local coffee shop changed its menu. He remembered the last time they put that drink up on a poster, he was doing terrible and feeling sorry for himself. Ah, what a great time. He worked on Christmas and it felt like any other day, with a touch of Michael Bublé. 

Sam didn't hear from Pete again. Not that he expected it. But he certainly hoped for it. And he'd rather blame his disappointment on things out of his control (Pete) than blaming himself for not having gone for it. It seemed like the healthy thing to do.

-

The following week, Sam spent New Year Eve with friends but wanted to spend midnight with his mother. She said she had a party with her book club buddies but he knew she'd want to see him, even for a bit. So here he was, driving on roads as dead as the night. He didn't drink but he was exhausted and it was getting horribly late. He crossed a tunnel and decided to park on the side of the road. There was a striking view on his right and it was already 23:52. Knowing he wouldn't be able to make it home, Sam stepped out of his car to check out glowing Manhattan. Everything was still and quiet and frozen in time. Snow at night does that to you. The sound of the slamming car door broke the atmosphere, like something that shouldn't have happened. Shivering, his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket, Sam enjoyed the freezing temperatures with a resigned calm. The view was worth it.

Headlights approached. A car passed him, slowed down, stopped and went in reverse. Sam didn't move. Well, his teeth moved and clattered. The window went down.

“Hey that you, Officer. Doing the annual holiday ambush?” said Pete, a hand over his steering wheel. Sam was so dumbstruck, he had to find his voice and when he spoke, he was surprised to hear a certain coldness. As if he resented Pete for something obscure.

“Nope. I'm off the clock... But yeah, don't drink and drive.”

Pete glanced at his watch and leaned forward to get a better look at the view. “Mind if I park?” he asked.

“No, no, go.” And Pete parked. And he went out and shivered, putting his coat more closely around him. They both sat on the hood of Sam's car and checked the view. Sam took a worn out cigarette park out of his jacket. He showed it to Pete, offering one. He declined. A silence. Sam lighted his cigarette and noticed some plaster on Pete's pants. “You worked today?”

Pete nodded.

“Don't you have holidays?” Sam pressed on.

“Nah. I don't really see the point.” Pete gestured for the lit cigarette, changing his mind. Sam gave it to him.

“Of holidays?”

“Seems forced. Like a big stop sign in the middle of the road,” he replied while inspecting the cigarette suspiciously. He took a drag. Sam decided that someone who didn't care about holidays, who called them "forced", usually didn't mention them with such a lump in their throat, with such a pain in the clenching of their jaw.

“Tell me you stop to them, though. Stop signs,” said Sam, trying to ignore the seriousness around.

“Always the cop, hm?”

And the fireworks began. Splash of golden sparks lighted up their faces and reflected on the windshield. It was far away, far above, and it made it ten times more beautiful.

“No booze?” Pete asked.

“Sure, I've got some in my glovebox along with a free night in custody.”

“Nah, I live nearby. I can walk.”

And just like that, Sam's face was on fire and it wasn't because of the millions of ponds of gunpowder exploding in the sky above him. It was because this guy was suddenly doing small talk.

“Not so chatty today,” remarked Pete. 

“Sorry.” Sam couldn't help but give an apologetic smile.

“S'okay. I don't mind.”

And so silence it was, with the fireworks noises around and the rays of smoke crossing the sky. Sam was dying to put his hand on his, just a friendly pat to see his reaction, and then leaving it here longer, if he didn't run. His fingers were itching to move. So he gestured for the cigarette instead and took solace in brushing his fingers. He took a drag.

“I better go back. My mother's waiting.” Sam said when the show was over, stomping on the cigarette butt. 

Pete nodded to himself, looking ahead of him. “Happy New Year,” was all he said before returning to his own car.

Sam knew that he was being a dick. Ah pride. How could he be so desperate for something but so proud to actually ask for it? His big argument was that, if Pete wanted what he wanted, the bastard would have called. The snow was falling hard and Sam struggled to open his car. Pete noticed and went back to him. And Sam couldn't handle anything right now, he just wanted to go home. He wanted to be safe, comfortable, in his bubble.

“Ice shut, but barely. It's been what, twenty minutes?” said Sam, waving him off. But Pete was already at his side, rubbing his cold hands together. He knelt by the door, inspected it and, putting his hands on each side of the lock, proceeded to blow on it. Sam sat down, his back against his car, watching. He could feel Pete's hot breath against his cheek.

“Your breath can't possibly be that hot”, said Sam with an amazed chuckle. In answer to that, Pete just pulled the handle and the door opened. He stared at Sam to mark his point.

“I could have done it,” said Sam with a small scoff. “Do you... maybe you wanna come over? Mom would be happy to see you.”

But Pete stood up and shook his head slightly again. “Don't think it's a good idea there, Officer.” And Sam didn't even want to hear an excuse, he nodded, stood and went in the car. When he arrived at his childhood home, his mother could have sworn he cried on the way.

-

Sam was leaving a meeting when his phone rang. By then, he stopped being excited and anxious checking the screen. And he was right. He was his mother. Awesome.

“Pete called, you know, the construction guy? He's working on the renovation of the coffee shop on 4th Street. They were going to throw away a coffee machine and he took it instead. It works, or so he says...”

“Wait, I love our machine.”

“I'm ashamed of our machine. Can you come around five?”

“Why?”

“I won't be home, I've got my book club. You've got to let him in.”

So Sam let him in. Pete carried a big box on a dolly and the second they were both alone in the kitchen, Sam heard a cacophony playing in his heart. It felt like a sledgehammer all over again.

“You didn't steal it, did you?” Sam asked, nodding at the box.

Pete glances away, shaking his head ever so slightly in disbelief. “That how you see me?”, Pete asked.

“I'm kidding, my mom's grateful.”

“You?”

“I liked boiling the water and concocting the whole thing like some kind of male witch. Call me dramatic.”

Peter began cutting the box open. “Choosing the hell you know over the paradise you don't, huh?”

And Pete straightened and Sam faced that broken nose and those black eyes and swallowed hard.

“I hate that saying, makes no sense. Paradise you don't know... Then you don't know it's paradise, do you?” Sam argued, putting his hands on his hips.

“It's called a risk. You ever take any?”

“Yeah well, in my field, we take precautions instead.”

“You must miss out on a lot of things," said Pete with something that sounded almost like disdain. And Pete kept on staring and Sam didn't think he ever blinked once – or maybe they were blinking at the exact same time and not seeing each other blinking? Possible.

“I just need to know more about what I'm getting into,” said Sam with a shrug.

Pete lowered his gaze and took some bubble wrap out of the box. “Like with this coffee machine?”, he asked.

“You've got the manual for it, right?”

Pete chuckled quietly at that, but Sam was being dead serious. He unplugged his old, precious coffee machine. God, the noise it made. He should have trashed this machine such a long time ago.

“Some things, there's no manual. You gotta go blind, ” said Pete harshly while grabbing the old machine and putting it on the ground.

“See, that doesn't work for me,” said Sam.

Pete placed the new machine on the counter. “You call it, what, comfort zone? That the word? Huh? I call it being a coward.”

And then everything went cold again. Sam felt a shiver down his spine. Pete put the old machine on the dolly. Sam didn't know what to say. He decided to go with honesty.

“I just... I just don't handle disappointment very well, that's all.”

Pete ignored that, busy to fix the dolly up so the old coffee machine wouldn't fall off. Sam kept on going.

“You say 'You've got to go blind' but... nobody goes blind into anything, they carry expectations, right? And then there's that bloody buildup and... it's crazy scary and you know what, I don't care: If having some... assusrance make it easier than, I mean, yeah, I'm taking it. It's like those fear boxes right? You put your hands and even if there's a puppy inside, you imagine a snake. You can't enjoy the puppy, because you have no idea it's a puppy. So what's the point? Hm? I'd at least make sure it's not lethal before putting my hands--”

Sam kept on running his mouth while plugging the new machine in. When he straightened, Pete was two inches away. His stare was nervous, dropping to Sam's lips then back at eye level, then noticing something in his hair, then back on the lips. It looked like his brain was going through a thousand thoughts per second. Meanwhile, Sam froze, staring straight ahead. Finally, finally, Pete' head titled and his mouth was on his. Two lips, full and strong, pressed again his. And Sam's heart was a time bomb and his chest was bursting and he was so shocked he just slightly opened his mouth. And all at once, Pete moved the empty space. And everything was too full too suddenly and it overflowed and Pete closed his mouth and turned his head slightly, to talk.

“I ain't a snake. Yeah? My name's Frank.”


	3. Happy Birthday

Skin, up close, always seemed like a landscape to Sam: Different colors, various scars and twelve shades of bruises. Sam was used to bruises, the yellow ones, the greenish ones. The ones with a purple rim on top. The one when a stepladder fell on his leg, the one when he missed a step down the stairs, the one when he was biking and a car door opened. Accident, sport, bumping into table corners -- they all create different imprints. Sam had a large bruise against his ankle, it was green and blue, nearly teal. It was hard, like a shield was placed under his skin to protect the area from further damage. But the mark that bugged him the most was the one on his neck. It was red and the first of its kind. It had little spots here and there, like freckles. It didn't hurt so much. It reminded him of Frank and that afternoon in the kitchen.

-

He didn't get in touch with Frank until the end of February. He just processed the events and avoided any confrontation. But at the end of Feruary, Sam conveniently passed the construction site on 4th Street. He had to look behind all the hard hats to find Frank, wearing jeans and a tainted grey hoodie. After finishing tearing a wall down, he noticed Sam and went to him, eyebrows knit in worry.

“Everything's okay?” Frank asked, taking his hard hat off.

“Yeah, it's just. I've been thinking...”

And without a word, Frank's face said it all. His eyebrow went up, his mouth got thinner, his jaw clenched. “That good news?”

“I was just--”

“The kitchen, huh?” Frank clicked his tongue, shaking his head slightly. “That been bugging you?”

“No... Yes, yes?” admitted Sam, his brown eyes surprised at his own words.

“S'okay,” Frank wasn't looking at him, his eyes glancing every which way. But not his. And Sam knew he was vexed but no surprised. And Sam felt Frank slipping away from him, in a mute agreement that it had all been a mistake.

“Bugging, in a good way. You didn't get it wrong. It was... great.”

And the strength it took Sam to say that was more than it took to complete Quantico. The balls it took. How quickly he could have gone with the pre-made narrative, how easily he could have made sure nothing changed. But he put his foot down. Frank's eyes kept going right, as if he needed to find a third-party person who could confirm what had happened.

“That why I haven't heard from you?” replied Frank.

“It's just...” said Sam, hesitated.

“I ain't got all day. What's you saying?”

“Ah, c'mon, don't--”

Frank turned to walk away. Sam remembered how Frank hated cowards. But again, it took balls and he said it. “I like you.”

Now, for some reason, when he turned around Frank looked nearly insulted. He came back to him, his nose wrinkled in a sneer. “Oh, do you? 'Cause I've been sitting on my ass for weeks and Officer, sir, don't give me the time of day--”

“Well maybe if you didn't lie about your name...What's it gonna be tomorrow, Jean-Jacques? Pablo'? See, you gotta earn my trust first.”

Frank laughed a bit, from the throat, form far far down. And then he nodded to himself and faced the silence by scratching behind his ears. Then, he talked. “I gotta go.”

“Oh wow. Classy,” said Sam, “And there I thought you liked me too.”

“Don't even start on that, you don't know shit--”

“You don't tell me shit.”

“Yeah why bother?” asked Frank. And no reply. And a silence. He stared at Sam, at last. “Do you wanna do this or not? I'm askin' here. But you gotta go blind.”

Sam had a hard time swallowing. Something in the bottom of his stomach just turned over. Entering a relationship with a weirdo who went under a fake name most of the time, barely made eye contact and crushed walls like it was butter – good or bad idea? Bad. Bad, very bad. And yet such an attractive idea. His hesitation must have taken forever, because Frank put his hands up, giving up. But his lips where fuller that ever and Sam didn't know if the words they contained were going to fill him up or empty him. Coward, he said to himself. And he let Frank leave.

-

It was Sandra's birthday today. She was a colleague so it begged for an after-work party. Her cousin owned a bar in Chelsea. They were about half a dozen to go. Sam didn't have time to order a ginger beer that someone was already calling “Shots!”, which he declined. And finally agreed when they were on the third round. He'll take the train.

The last few weeks, at every turn, at every crossroad, Sam imagined meeting Frank. He dreaded it and yearned for it. He wanted it to happen and sometime spent a good amount of time scanning the street for his face, his strong shoulders, his short dark hair. And he'd see someone that could be him and all at once, he'd hide behind a bus stop or turn away. He didn't want to see him, really, he couldn't. Because he didn't know Frank. The man he found such fascination in was really a stranger. Maybe that was where the fascination came from. You know everybody, and here comes the stranger. He felt silly. Like when he found his 13 years old self's journal and read it. Because at the end of the day, he was just afraid he'd care more than Frank would. It was what his history of bad relationship suggested: he was the love sick puppy and fell for people out of his reach.

It was happy hour now and the bar quickly filled up. It smelled of cigarette and booze. The music was louder now and so were the people. Some neons and light effects and Sam was soon overwhelmed. Everybody was so free. A couple held hands and kissed and Sam was staring too much and had to apologize and turn away. He didn't feel like he was fitting in, and yet. And yet. Yet another shot. And Sam did what drunks in love do. He opened the text conversation Frank and him had weeks ago to read it again.

Sarah and the rest were discussing how to go home: Who could drive, who couldn't, who could they share ride with. Annoyed by Sam's phone obsession, Sarah took it from him and sent a random text from the phone. Sam extirpated the phone from her and read what she sent: “drunk af, need a ride xoxoxo.” And Frank replied. He actually replied. Quickly, too. “Where are you?” and like an idiot Sam texted the address. Let's deal with it head on. That was why he was so bad at hide and seek when he was young, he just wanted to get it over with, so he'd just stay in plain sight.

-

And still, he was surprised when a hand fell on his shoulder half an hour later. Sam turned on his seat to face Frank.

“Need a ride home?”

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks.” Sam said good-bye to everybody and walked out of the bar, Frank helping him. God, the fresh air felt nice.

“Why'd you come?” Sam asked. Frank pulled Sam to his car, shaking his head in puzzlement, mumbling to himself: “He asks why...”

“I didn't send that first text,” said Sam, “I sent the second, though.”

Frank nods to himself and opened the door to Sam.

“You got a ticket,” noticed Sam when sitting down.

Frank took the ticket off the windshield and threw it in the back seat. He closed the car door and ajusted the rearview mirror. “I should be mopin' and gettin' drunk--”

Sam reached for the ticket on the backseat. “You've got a week to pay for the ticket.”

Frank's jaw clenched and his smashed his first on the driving wheel. Sam retracts. “Okay,” he mumbled in a little voice. He put the ticket back on the backseat. Frank started the engine, his knuckles white against the wheel.

“You're upset,” said Sam. Even drunk, he knew that texting someone you just turned down was far from the most suave thing to do. Frank turned the wheel and drove away from the tight parking sport he managed to get.

“Is that because...” Sam continued.

“What do you want, hm? You say no, can't do-- Then I find you drunk. Textin' me. You want me to ask again? I ain't beggin'.”

“Oh please. Look at you. You can have anyone you want.”

Frank stopped at a red light. “That right?”

“I get it, I'm funny and cute but not so much the lover, am I?”

Frank started the car again. Sam rambled on. “And don't lie and tell me that's not true. We're all that shallow. That's why pretty people rule the world.”

Frank stopped the car by a subway entrance. “Okay that's it, get out,” he said.

“What? No.”

“I'm not listenin' to that shit. Get out.”

Sam stayed put, sulking like a child. Frank resumed driving. They were both silent for fifteen long minutes. It felt like an hour. Frank managed to calm down. Sam sobered up. They passed a couple of parks, a bridge and a tunnel.

“That why you weren't interested?” Frank asked finally, his voice rusted, his head turning from the road to Sam and then on the road again.

“Some people are just too... much and it's a bit intimidating, that's all,” said Sam, completely sober now.

And Frank looked at him and back at the road. “Too much what?”

Silence. Frank continued.

“'Cause here I am, thinking... thinking you're... Fuck, Sam. You--you're everything I'm not, yeah? Always here, cracking jokes, being a smartass, making people smile. Me, I don't remember the last time I've been a good friend to nobody. You're everything anybody wants, you get that? And you're... you're fucking handsome too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay be more precise. How handsome? Is it the beard? I wanna make it longer,” said Sam with a smile.

“Whatever works for you.”

“And then dye it bright white, turns vegan...”

“Okay okay, vegan is not gonna work.”

“Oh, okay, I see how it is.” Sam took a deep breath. “So are we doing this?”

“What, turning vegan? Hell no,” sneered Frank with disgust.

“Nah. The you and me thing,” said Sam, pointing at them both. Frank slowed down and stared at him in the rear-view mirror.

“B'cause if so, you better turn around,” continued Sam.

“Why's that?” Frank frowns.

Sam points at the road. “You're driving to my mother's. We're going to my place tonight. Get greasy food on the way. Make out.”

“That right?”

“Fried chicken's good?”

Frank tried to suppress a smile. “Yeah,'s perfect.”

-

The minute they arrived, Frank took the Church's Chicken box from Sam's hands and smashed it against the fridge. He took his hoddie off, his arms strong in a gray tank top and with one hand, grabbed Sam's jaw and kissed him full on the mouth. Sam returned the kiss, placing his hand against the back of Frank's neck. It was deep and slow and noisy too. Frank broke the kiss and took his top off. And Sam lowered his eyes and oh, mother of God. “Are you kidding me?” Sam said, staring at Frank's shredded abdomen. Frank leaned for another kiss but Sam was frozen into place. He put one hand on Frank abs. “Holy shit.”

Frank started unbuttoning Sam's shirt but Sam stepped back. “Ah, you think I'm gonna take my shirt off? After seeing that? Fuck no.”

“Oh, com'on,” mumbled Frank, tugging Sam's shirt open. “C'mon.” And he pleaded with his eyes.

-

The morning after, Sam dressed back up. Pants, shirt, the work. Mecanically, he put his FBI badge on. He noticed Frank's eyes on it. Frank just woke up and he woke up to this.

“FBI, hm?”

Sam nodded.

“Yeah, I figured.”


	4. Happy Passover

Casually, they talked about Passover. It came naturally, following up another conversation that followed up another. Was it last Sunday that they talked about it? When they were in bed and lazy. Or was it on Monday, in the shower after Frank came back from work covered in sweat and plaster? Or maybe in the evening. When Frank watched “The Hurt Locker”, beer in hand, and complained there and then about inaccurate details and such. Meanwhile, Sam tried to fix some kind of diner following the instructions of a Tasty video he found on Facebook. The movie ended and Frank came to help him and Sam pretended it was an old family recipe. And Frank pretended to believe him.

So when was it exactly that they talked about it? Sam couldn't remember. But Sam said: “If you don't have anything for Easter, you can come over.” He said it because he figured the answer would be no anyway, so there was no danger, no commitment, in asking. It was Passover, Easter, more important even than Hanukkah. And Frank didn't like holidays, he said. So Sam seemed polite and pleasant and open-minded without actually be any of that. The invitation was vague and without any reminder of the sort, no intended follow up. Because as much as his mom loved Frank, Sam wouldn't be so sure about the rest of his very large, traditional family. 

-

The living room was filled with relatives talking and laughing and arguing. Aunt Rachel went to the door five minutes ago and didn't come back. Thinking she got lost on her way to the washroom (again), Sam stood up to see what was going on. What he saw was Frank, at the front door. He was two heads taller than poor old Rachel, crunched over her cane. She turned to Sam, who leaned in confidence.

“Ah, Samuel. I don't know what this man wants. He has wine? Says he's here for Sam.”

“Yeah, that's... auntie, that's literally my name.”

“Nobody calls you Sam.”

“You're the only one who doesn't.”

“Nonesense. Listen, I keep on saying we don't need more wine but he's not listening. Tell him we're not buying.”

“It's fine, I got it.”

Rachel went back in the living room and Sam immediately joined Frank on the porch, closing the front door behind him. The air was chilled and humid. It was probably going to be stormy tonight.

“What are you doing here?” Sam whispered.

Frank frowns. “That a trick question?”

“You didn't... you didn't tell me you planned on coming. I thought you had plans already.”

Frank was used to people expecting him to come and him not coming –- not the other way around. What a weird way to disappointment someone... by showing up. And Sam was going on, snapping words, looking behind him, stressed out.

“You didn't even ask stuff like 'What can I bring?', how was I suppose to know you were coming?”

Frank held his bottle of dark wine up.

“Not the point! But great. But you didn't-- You said 'We'll see', you didn't confirm. Damnit, a phone call, was that too much to ask?”

A silence. Frank stepped back, nodding to himself, with mopey eyes and just a shine of resentment. “That bad a time, hm?”

“Everything is going to shit in there--” And loud voices came from the living room, an argument. “What... Ah, God, can you wait over there, five minutes?”

And so Frank waited on the porch. He wanted to get away, to take his car, go somewhere else. He was ready to leave when Sam appeared again, calm now.

“Look, s'okay--,” said Frank.

“No. I was a dick. I overreacted.”

“S'alright. Your mom only cooked for a limited number of people and--”

“Who cares? We have enough matzah to feed the country. We make them in canapés.”

Frank tilts his head, lost.

“Nibbles. In French it's “canapé”, it means “couch”, I find it funny. It makes Aunt Rachel furious because, y'know, matzah is the poor guy's bread and my mom likes to fancy it up. They were arguing just now. Also they know I like gals and guys but they've never seen me with...”

“A guy.”

“Yeah,” Sam winced.

Frank's mind just numbed itself and his eyes seemed like they were reading something, going back and forth, jumping from thought to thought. Frank chuckled dryly.

“Lemme be clear-- Y'could have said that, I'd have understood. I know how it feel, yeah? I'd have said, yeah sure, I'll be your buddy from out of town. But don't you ask me and then-- I mean we're in this together, yeah? So you've got to talk to me. Is all I'm askin'--” He said, in a grunt.

“I know, I know. I just stressed out. It's gonna be fine. We'll wing it.”

-

So they winged it. “By the way, here's the guy I'm seeing at the moment”, kind of winging it. All the cousins and the uncles and the aunts looked at Frank with mute surprise. The cringy jokes and misplaced questions didn't come. They all looked at Frank and knew better than to fuck with the guy. How could you sit next to someone like Frank, twice your size, with bruises blooming across his cheeks from recent bar fights, and ask: “So who's on top?” Yeah. Not recommended. The only feedback Sam got was “Good catch”, uttered with quiet respect. Despite being in the FBI, Sam was always the goofy little relative nobody took seriously. But if your dummy cousin Sam could persuade a guy like Frank to kiss him instead of kill him, well, that was something. Frank was mysterious, he was polite and he bought wine. Nobody had any complains.

But Sam knew what was to happen next. Aunt Rachel was going to husk Frank like a vulture on a corpse, ask him a hundred questions. She always relished at the idea of knowing all she could on any given person. It gave her a sense of possession, or control, or fufillment. And Sam wasn't giving her anything and she was starving and often questioned people he knew for piece of information. She would grasp a detail, twist it wrong so he'd have to correct it and admit to it. That's how she discovered that Sam (occasionally) smoked. But to everybody's surprise, Aunt Rachel loved Frank. She loved him because he was silent and he listened. Nobody listened to Aunt Rachel, they'd just roll their eyes and play Candycrush on their phone. But Frank listened. Rachel talked about losing her husband, how hard it was. Frank understood more than most.

Meanwhile, Sam was in a losing battle with his Uncle about whether the Star Wars prequels should have been made. When Frank went to help Sam's mother in the kitchen, Aunt Rachel stole Sam away.

“Must be hard,” said Rachel, petting her cane.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know...”

“Well, I don't,” Sam said, knowing she was fishing for information.

“I told him about Robert and he mentioned his family. Dear God. You must pray for him, yes? Let us pray. Let's not easy for a widow to start again, you know.”

-

It rained hard that night. The air was electric and the clouds heavy. Despite the weather, Sam walked Frank to his car. He parked a couple blocked away to avoid getting a ticket. The whole time, Sam was unusually deep in thought and silent, holding a couple newspapers above his head. Frank didn't have any cover from the pouring rain and didn't mind it.

“Can I come to your place tonight?” asked Sam, finally.

“Not staying at your mom's?”

“I've never been to your place. Weird, right?”

“It's--”

“I don't mind if it's a shithole,” said Sam quickly, raising his voice to be heard in the rain. 

“Another day, hm? So I can--”

“Tidy up.”

“Yeah.”

“Get rid of the shit tons of firearms? Ammo. Maybe even a Police frequency radio.”

Frank stopped dead on his track, his eyes hard on him.

“Fake name, military training, no friends. Family killed.” Sam said, over the rain, water dripping from his eyelashes. “Sounds familiar.” He unfolded a newspaper. It read: _The People vs Frank Castle: Trial of the Century_. Frank's gaze dropped.Sam continued, chuckling to himself at his own naivety: “It's my bad, really. All my peeps at work investigate their new dates. Me? I went old school here. And I fucking regret it.”

Frank opened his mouth, ready to speak. Sam cut him short. “No, wait, let me guess: You were gonna tell me, hm? You were gonna be like 'By the way, Sam darling, you know that Punisher guy? Killing mobsters in cold blood? Surprise!'”

“I was gonna--” began his Frank, but his voice drowned in the rain.

“Before or after you used me to get classified information?”

“I ain't using you, I didn't know 'til—”

Sam sighed. “You know the sad thing? I actually believe you. I'm just the junior with the shitty little desk outside. There's a shitload of Federal Agents with more clearance than me. And a nicer ass.”

“You can do without the wiseass attitude right now.”

“Not really sure what else I have to offer. God, reading the paper, I used to think you were a nutjob, I mean-- A real basket case. But now? I see they toned it down. Getting it on with a Federal agent? What were you thinking? I know I bake a killer mac'n cheese and I do that cool thing with my tongue but--”

Frank grabbed the second newspapers from Sam's hands. It read: _Frank Castle Presumed Dead._

“I'm dead. Yeah? I don't exist.”

“Frank, I'll stop you right there. I'm not gonna lie to the FBI.”

Sam expected something of a breakdown and a breakout. But Frank was calm, at peace. Not freaked out the slightest. No kicking, no threatening, no jaw clenching. And Sam understood. It creeped up on him all at once.

“Shit. You damn well know I won't tell.” Frank cracks the smallest of smile. “Fuck me... You better not give the FBI any reason to work on a case involving you,” continued Sam. “That'll be the death of me, I swear.”

-

That night, Sam went to Frank's place. With all the firearms and the ammo and the Police frequency radio. Frank sheepishly tried to move things away. He wasn't one for decorating and all but with Sam here, he felt slightly ashamed of the state of things. Sam's eyebrow were shot up high, inspecting the space as he would a prep. Like he would do it on the job. But then he saw Frank trying to crack the window open to let some air in and he remembered he wasn't on the job. Frank stripped to his tank top and gestured to his tiny bridge.

“Beer?”

Sam was still taking it all in. Frank acted nervous, like it was a first date all over again and he didn't want to scare the guy off. But cases of machine guns can do that to a guy. Frank closed the fridge door upon seeing Sam's concern. His back leaning on the kitchen table, both hands on it. 

“That's all kinds of wrong,” said Sam.

“I ain't using 'em. I'm layin' low.”

Frank pointed at Sam's clothes, dripping wet. “I'll bring you some dry clothes.”

So Frank went to his broken down wardrobe to find some clean pants and t-shirts. Sam absent-mindedly took his blazer off and tried to undo his tie. Frank put the new clothes on the bed.

“ You're safe, 'kay?”

Sam chuckled. “I'm FBI, Frank. I could beat the shit out of you without breaking a sweat.”

“You sure 'bout that?”

“Okay maybe I'd be sweating a little.”

Frank stared in silence for a couple minute. A rumbling rattled the windows and a thunderbolt illuminated the room. The building seems so fragile, about to collapse at any given moment. Sam was still struggled with his tie. Frank closes the distant to kiss him. Both of their hair were wet and cold. A drop of water followed the bridge of Frank's broken nose and into Frank's lips and into Sam's lips.

-

And a routine set in. Saturday was tacos and movies. Sunday, outdoor stuff. For Frank, there was something oddly comforting about the routine. He remembered the U.S army's routine. Shower, drill, breakfast, weapons cleaning. A routine kept you sane. And after all the crazy, it was relaxing to find the expected. Just like holidays, unchanging, exciting, a stop sign down the road to take a moment and breath.

Hopefully, nothing would change that.

-

The End.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Easter! Happy Passover! Thanks so much to the lil handful of you that read my story. I know the pairing seems a bit random but hopefully you had a glimpse of the potential I saw in them two. I just thought it'd be interesting and fun to do. Thanks to eclecticanarchist for writing them as well ;))


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